


Oh, I know

by whaleofatime



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010)
Genre: And how it ends on a Good Note, Established Relationship, Jason Todd Whump, Lazarus Pit Madness, M/M, Protective Bruce Wayne, What happens on a Bad Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: Jason wakes up with Pit madness roaring at the back of his head, and heknowsit's going to be a bad, bad day.But despite an encounter with the Joker, getting lost in the sewers, and an unfortunate incident with cheesecake, hedoesend up with Bruce's hand, careful and warm on his back, so.All in all? Jason's had worse days.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 14
Kudos: 179





	Oh, I know

Jason’s always made a point of not lying to himself. Shitty childhood, shitty death, shitty rebirth? The first step to dealing with all those problems is accepting that you're a man full of problems, because pretending you're doing fine leads straight to ruin. He’s tried it both ways, and while ‘ruin’ was great in the early days of being the Red Hood, emotional dysfunction sucks in comparison to Extremely Mundane things like healthy relationships and a good family life.

So when it’s a cold, miserable day in Gotham, exactly as miserable as the day before and likely to be just as miserable as the day to come, it doesn’t really take him by surprise that he starts to feel a little… untethered. Two feet off centre, axis tilted like a neck ache’s got your head cocked funny, the world looking like it’s been forced through a filter and has come out the other side substantially more distorted.

Jason’s got any number of ideas for what causes his little episodes, and the list is a damn long one. One time he’s pretty sure he dissociated after binging on two pints of ice cream after not eating on a stake-out for three days, and on the opposite end of Things He Should Probably Be Really Worried About, he’s pretty sure he was _literally_ outside of himself and spectated getting killed. The sense of wildness behind the eyes only got worse after the Pit, which seems par for the course of how Lazarus-ing works, because on Christ there must be some sort of environmental factor to explain why Ra’s is the way he is. 

He’s happy enough to assume the Pit is part of the reason why he’s like this, especially in conjunction with his myriad of traumas and god knows what else. The worst thing of all, though, is that Jason’s mostly sure he’s still not the top contender for the Not Quite All There crown in the family, and isn’t that just, like, really genuinely sad?

Pays to have a sense of self so strong that you’re stubborn enough to come back as a reanimated corpse, probably. And on this awful, no-good, ugly day, Jason wakes up at 11:30 AM to a fender bender smash-and-bang right outside his bedroom, looks at the dreary sky, and decides that if the Pit’s come a-calling, he might as well indulge in a spot of mindless recklessness.

It’s a coping strategy that works, which, again, is more than can be said about a lot of things a lot of the Bats and Birds do. Last time he woke up feeling this out of sorts, giving in to the temptation to be a little feral hadn’t resulted in anything more alarming than eating himself sick at an all-you-can-eat shrimp buffet and almost having an ambulance called on him by staff reacting badly to his mild shellfish allergy and substantially less-mild case of the hives breaking out on his face.

_Good job, Jay,_ he thinks to himself, because that means the last time he mildly lost it was before The Great Quarantine of 2020, and that’s _got_ to be some sort of a record.

It’s less great that all-you-eat shrimp buffet restaurants are at an all time low right now, but that’s neither here nor there. 

He lays in bed for a while more, listening to two men curse each other out in an accident where both of them had brazenly ignored different traffic laws, and by the time he gets up (with the fight outside broken up by a woman screaming that she works the night shift at the hospital and if they didn’t shut the _hell_ up she was going to sneeze all over them) he’s in a good-ish place.

Jason grabs his helmet, grabs his jacket. He grabs his guns, an umbrella, a credit card boosted from one of Oswald’s lads, the 2-for-1 coupon for Subway cookies, and rolls out the door.

Day’s gonna be how it’s gonna be, so he’s gonna get going.

-

Coming back into himself feels a lot like waking up after passing out unexpectedly, or that shot of panic straight to the brain when you come to after microsleeping while doing close to a 100 miles an hour on an empty highway. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not _un_ pleasant because in these cases it means he’s waking up when he might not deserve to. Jason comes to, sortof, in a mess of jitters as adrenaline drains out of him, and it takes him a moment to calm his breathing and realise a series of things.

He’s got his helmet on, which means that running on autopilot his body had decided to get up to some minor violence, and he didn’t end up spending the day sitting quietly in a booth somewhere eating his body weight in fried chicken. It’s dark, smelly, and damp, which are pretty common states of being for Gotham, but he’s also almost knee-high in water and that’s… less common. 

Jason registers that he’s in the sewers at the same time he realises that he’s got a body-warm sack squirming like a fuck on his shoulder, and that’s substantially more ominous than even Gotham’s dirty water.

“Fuck!” he swears, dropping the body, and hopes against hope that it’s Bruce, who’s the most likely person to let himself get kidnapped just to keep an eye on Jason. 

But Jason knows the weight and breadth of Bruce, knows how he’s built and how he feels, and this (unfortunately) ain’t it. He hopes it’s not some random civilian, though he doubts it is. It takes more than Jason falling off the deep end before he’ll ever harm a civvie, and he's pretty damn sure that if he _had_ just gone gallivanting around Gotham kidnapping randos, the gang would have intervened by now.

  
That leaves the Rogues Gallery, in which case he really fucking hopes it’s Ivy because the maple sapling he’s got growing in a pot in an attempt to make bonsai his hobby is, much like him at this moment in time, not doing great.

Ready or not, he supposes. He unties the sack and lets it flip over, and Christ.

It’s good that he knows himself really well, knows himself even when he has the least control of himself; he hasn't crossed an uncrossable line. 

It’s less good that he’s apparently kidnapped the Joker, who’s looking at him with the standard Crazed Eyes of an asshole who’s happier smashing the table instead of bringing anything to it. The man is gagged, thank fuck, and is apparently bound by what looks like 3 pounds worth of duct tape.

Jason idly kicks the Joker in the gut, and rubs the forehead of his mask. _Gag was a good idea_ , he wants to tell him from a few hours ago. _The less I hear of him the better_.

Makes it much less likely to make him fly into a murderous rage, and if instead he just delights in watching the Joker get a faceful of sewer water, well. 

It’s important to take the little wins where he can. A floating condom packet gets caught in the man’s stringy hair? Cosmic comedy at her absolute finest, and Jason’s going to savour it in the way he’s going to savour the fact that at his most unhinged, he can out-chaos even the Joker. It’s a _hell_ of an ace to hold up a sleeve when he’s promised not to kill the fuckhead for now. 

In a worst-case scenario, Jason Pit-Beast Todd _can_ and _will_ take out the Joker, and if that’s the only positive takeaway from today it’s still going to end up one of the best days of this entire year, to be honest. Now, to figure out how to haul one ugly-ass bastard-man back to Arkham when he doesn’t have a car or a bike or even the clearest idea of how to get out of the sewers.

Combing his pockets he finds a soggy Subway cookie that he mourns not getting to eat, bits and bobs that tend to manifest in deep jean pockets, and a marked absence of a phone, which is a screaming pain. The lenses in the helmet have great GPS tracking but also suck at letting him see a map, and he’s never been the best at orienteering anyways.

Jason feels himself running out of options and getting more and more worried that the water would soften the glue and any second now he’s going to hear the Joke say something incendiary and ugly, and he just doesn’t have enough alcohol at hand to deal with it right now.

Grimacing and deeply embarrassed, he taps the side of his helmet and opens up a line of comms straight to HQ. “Hey, Red Hood calling in,” he says, careful to turn off the speaker so all Joker sees is him holding where his ear would be while staring at a grate, and all he hears is nothing. “It’s a little early for office hours,” and Jason _cannot_ fathom how he kidnapped the world’s most awful villain about 4 hours after rolling out his door, “but I’ve got a bit of a situation and could do with some back-up.”

There’s quiet on the line, and of course there is. This time of day no one’s manning the computers, and Jason sorely does _not_ want to open the emergency comms to freak everyone out when he’d be better served by Google Maps. He looks over at his kidnap victim, who appears to be spiritedly talking despite being completely incomprehensible, and hails the general comms again. “Red Hood to anyone listening. Can someone just tell me how to get to Arkham from where I am right now? Things went down with the Joker and I just wanna stop being in a sewer.”

The lack of response goes on for long enough that he’s almost given up, before Bruce comes through all warm and airy.

“Jacob! How are you? It’s been a while since I last heard from you.”

Oh, Jason knows that tone of voice, and he tries not to groan. “Say something super dumb about the weather if you’re picking up the call as Mr. Wayne.”

“Sorry, you’re going to have to repeat yourself, I swear a light drizzle is enough to ruin my connection.” Bruce sounds as smooth and calm as anything, even if he’s now moving so fast Jason can hear the clack-clack-clack of his footsteps. “I apologise that none of my people returned your call, but at least you have me. Everything okay?”

Jason has literally zero doubt that wherever Mr. Wayne is in his polished leather loafers and his trim and fancy suit, he’s power-walking towards them at 8 miles an hour and already running a mental inventory of what equipment he has in his breast pocket and shiny silver tie-pin.

Hell of a heartening thought.

“Yeah, B, I’m fine. Just…. Bad Pit day, you know how it is.”

Bruce is quiet for a second, but when he talks again he’s definitely broken into a fearsome jog. “I wish I did,” he says with too much feeling. “What can I do for you?”

“We-ell,” Jason’s not super clear on how to describe what’s happened, but while he’s always made an effort not to lie to himself, he’s also learned not to lie to Bruce (too often). “I went fuzzy in the head and when I got ahold of myself again I, uh.” This is, somehow, more embarrassing than the first time his voice broke as Robin. “I’m in a sewer with no phone or cash and I somehow kidnapped Joke-man while I was out of it, and I need directions to get to Arkham. That’s been my day.” It’s only 3 PM, Jesus. “You doing any better?”

By the sound of wind rushing by now, Jason wonders if B is actively trying to break the land speed record for someone running to someone else’s rescue. “Oh, you know. Could be better, could be worse. Thanks for letting me in on the plans; I’ll check in with the team. Let me get back to you in,” and Bruce is openly panting by this point, jeeze, “Mmm, give me a few minutes. Five, if I hurry.”

Bruce has hung up before Jason could tell him that he doesn’t actually _need_ to rush. The duct tape still seems to be holding on well, and Jason’s got negative qualms about Vulcan Pinching the consciousness out of the guy for a little while, but Bruce doesn’t give him the time for any bold declarations.

Bruce, also, makes it there in 3 and a half minutes, and Jason’s a little, just very slightly, completely fucking gobsmacked.

He’s glad his face isn’t visible as he peers out the storm drain and tries to _not_ sound like people usually do when Batman sweeps in when they need him most. Sans cowl, even when it’s just civilian Bruce Wayne kneeling by a gutter in an inhumanly expensive suit, Jason feels better already, but _obviously_ he can’t let on how relieved he is just to see Bruce on this, a bonafide Bad Day. At a loss for a cool thing to do he waves his gun around and turns the mic back on so he’s once again audible. “Expecting to see a clown?” he says, wholeheartedly ignoring the fact that he’s neither read the books nor seen the movie and Bruce probably hasn’t either, so what even is the point of this reference? “Well,” he drawls, “I’ve got one of those down here too.”

Bruce smiles, and it’s all dimples and teeth. “Aren’t I looking at one right now, Mister Hood?” You clown of a man, Bruce very politely does not say. 

Oh holy god, Jason wants to blow his cover just to rip off his helmet and let Bruce see how straight-up _offended_ he is by that savage insult. Instead, he growls and ignores the temptation to shoot into the ceiling or into one of two men. He can’t believe he left himself open for such brutality. “Shut up,” is what he ends up with, which is very lame but also just about all that he can manage. “I’m apprehending the Joker, Mr. Wayne. What the hell are you doing here?”

By now, of course, a crowd has gathered because it’s not every day you see a handsome man talk to a red-faced clown about a different clown. “You’re not too far from the WE building, Mr. Hood, though I can promise you I’m surprised to see you after dropping my phone down the drain. What a dedicated saviour you are, thank you.” Bruce does one of those tricksy things with dislocating thumbs and powerful pinkies, pulling his phone out of thin air but making it look like Jason had handed it over.

The crowd’s burst into applause, and this is literally a circus by now. 

Jason’s really glad no one can see him grinning. “Yeah, yeah, it’s what you gotta do if you want the uniform. As I was _saying_ , Mr. Wayne, I just caught the Joker. Mind calling for an escort to Arkham, and maybe dirtying up your suit a bit more to liberate me?”

“Right on it,” Bruce says, putting his phone to his ear but eyes still steady on Jason. “I’ll call my secretary, she’ll know what to do.” A smattering of giggles bubble up from the peanut gallery, but they quiet down right quick when Bruce turns to stare at them with a sharp look of disapproval. “Anyone not calling their secretary, please feel free to help Mr. Red Hood out, hmm?”

Oh, man, people always describe Bruce as some version of feckless bachelor, but they _never_ remember that he’s fathered and failed and fathered and fathered and fathered so very many so very difficult children. Like kids wilting under the glare of a benevolent but disappointed dad, half a dozen whole ass adults swarm towards the closest manhole cover, unable to stop glancing at Bruce for his approval. 

Jason wants to laugh so hard that not laughing might give him a hernia but he does his best, pulling the sack back over Joker’s head despite the man’s avid attempts to crawl into the eyeline of the people on the street. A manhole cover gets pried off just a few feet away, and sunlight streams in to the best of her ability. Jason cannot believe how well things have worked out, somehow. He hauls Joker up in a fireman’s lift as he climbs up the ladder, and though there are a bunch of hands reaching out to grab his heavy hideous burden off him, he shouts at them to fuck right off.

Then there’s Bruce, carefully body-blocking people away on the side with the Joker. Instead of trying to pull on the man-shaped gunny-sack, he reaches ‘round, grabs Jason by the back of his jacket and hauls him out like he’s got a kitten by the scruff of the neck, like Jason carrying a criminal weighs about the same as a particularly belligerent, exceptionally darling cat. 

To sell the story of a big-of-heart dumb-of-brain billionaire man, Bruce dramatically stumbles and falls over, Jason on his chest and Joker facedown on the ground, and the crowd being full of Gothamites, there’s some more applause even as 5 separate people have pulled out mace and tazers and are holding them steady steady at where Joker is now wiggling with his whole bastard soul. 

Sirens are already rolling in, and Jason’s got no doubt that at least one Bat is on their way to escort the Joker to Arkham, but for now, for the okay end of a bad day, Jason’s happy to just groan into Bruce’s chest. He’s exhausted and his limbs are all shaky and achy, but he’s also wonderfully clear-headed. It only feels better once Bruce starts carefully rubbing down his back, telling the amused onlookers that “You never know what’s going to fall in your lap when you open your heart up to love!” instead of tactically peeling Jason off him and protecting his civilian front. 

Jason notices this, notes this, breathes it in; between the unbearable relief of not having done something unforgivable mid-madness and Bruce staying here and being here despite how this affects his cover, Jason feels relief so overwhelming it-

Knocks him right out.

-

He comes to with a jerk and almost falls off the little cot. Jason’s hand goes straight to his face, and the absence of his helmet has his heart pounding even harder. He’s already rolling off the bed and picking up a stool to use for defense by the time the curtains are pulled back, and his nerves are so wound up that he responds at the speed of instinct to fling the chair right at, oh, shit, Bruce’s head.

Bruce ducks, and stoically doesn’t wince when the stool smashes against a piece of bleeding-edge technology. “Hello, Jason,” he says instead, and just like before, easily picks Jason up the scruff of his jacket to let him settle back on the bed. “How are you?”

“What the hell is going on?” Jason asks, though knowing he’s in the Cave does an amazing fucking job of easing the initial rush of panic. 

“You had a bad Pit day,” Bruce says, quiet and calm as anything. “It took a while to piece things together, but I believe you first ate 11 slices of cheesecake in the little Italian cafe on 8th and Faber, and then somehow abducted the Joker while he was on his way to explode a train station.” 

“Which train station?” is the only thing Jason can think of to ask.

“He hadn’t decided yet. I’m certain there’s more to the story, but Harley still hasn’t stopped laughing at your little stunt yet so I'm still on hold. When I pulled you out of the sewers, you passed out from sheer fatigue. Tim came to pick you up because I didn’t have a good enough reason as Bruce Wayne to drive you home, and Cass escorted the police to Arkham. We thought we would just let you rest.”

And Jason feels better for it. The nausea has lessened, either because he’s more grounded now or he’s digested his way through 11 (!!) cheesecakes, and inadvertently pulling Gotham’s biggest joke off the streets is a damn nice feeling. He groans, because it feels like the noise he most wants to make, and leans forward to press his forehead to Bruce’s chest (again). “What a weird fuckin’ day.”

“I know,” Bruce says softly, brushing through Jason’s hair. “I tore my pants while I was running towards you. A picture of my blue silk boxers are on the evening news.” He presses a kiss to the crown of Jason’s head. “So is a picture of you looking out the gutter with your gun out.”

Jason laughs, and really, really wishes he had his phone on him so that he could see the fruits of both the loom and his efforts. “Holy fuck.”

“Yes.” 

In the dampening gloom of the Cave, Jason’s laughter gets swallowed up, and he quietens. “I'm glad you came for me, B,” is what Jason settles on, muttered straight into the rough wool of a warm sweater.

Bruce shrugs, and Jason moves with him. “Good day, bad day. When you call, I’m going to come running, Jaybird. Do you understand that?”

He hadn’t this morning when the edges of his vision were started going green, but now it’s pretty easy to figure out. “Yeah,” Jason says, “Yeah, I do. Thanks, I guess.”

“Good.” Bruce pulls away despite Jason’s very loud, very irritated protests, and holds out a bottle of Lactaid because Jason has a side of lactose intolerance to keep his shellfish allergy company. “Next time, Jason, let us know when things aren’t right.”

“Next time,” Jason promises, reaching up to pull Bruce down for a proper kiss, “I’ll wake up on a bad day and think of you.”

And then he promptly shoves Bruce away from him to throw up 4-and-a-half cheesecakes on the ground.

(This is way better than all-you-can-eat shrimp.)

**Author's Note:**

> despite my actual output i've actually been really stuck writing-wise and when my friend sent [me](https://cetaceans-pls.tumblr.com/) this
> 
> i thought clearly the punchline is that jason is A Clown, he is straight BooBoo The Fool, and here we are. what a sunday of incredibly frenetic energy, and i'm now realising my foolishness for not naming this fic 'Just Another Manic Monday' insead. 
> 
> if you have an election coming up, vote! and as always, be kind and be safe and take care!!


End file.
